


Twice

by 2momsmakearight



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Smutty, angsty, good stuff, just read it, rewriting episodes and adding twists, this is supposed to be a surprise story, written for the X-Files Revisited Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2momsmakearight/pseuds/2momsmakearight
Summary: It happens twice





	Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr Summer 2016

It happens twice.

I.

Her skin is translucent, tissue-paper thin against the beating pulse of her neck, and he wonders what it would feel like to press his lips against it, to run his tongue against the blue vein that curls beneath the warm flesh. She smells warm and spicy, like patchouli musk and orange blossom. The lingering essence of her drifts towards him in waves, mixing and curling with the gray smoke that rolls from the tip of the cigarette that sits between the two fingers of her right hand.

She taps it against the ash tray, smirking through pursed lips as the smoke is pushed out of her lungs. “I don’t do this a lot,” she says. Her voice is dark and honeyed, like the glass of scotch that sits before him, raspy already from the few drags he’s witnessed. Doesn’t do what a lot, he wants to ask? Sit at a bar? Drink? Share the quiet solitude that only two lonely souls could understand?

As if reading his mind, she answers his question. “The smoking,” she says, gesturing to the cigarette as she brings it her mouth again.

He smiles, and nods his head in understanding, watching the ice lose the fight against its melting points, swirling into the amber liquid as it acquiesces to chemistry. He sees her tongue dart out, licking her bottom lip, and his fingers twitch against his glass. He wonders what it would be like to melt into her. Just for one night. To forget the pain, forget the emptiness that has been eating at him since his partner was taken on that mountain.

Don’t do it. Don’t think about her, he tells himself. Share your drink, go home, and find release in the abysmally depressing grip of your own fist. That’s what you always do, he thinks. She’s better than whatever fantasy lurks in your mind. One night in the arms of another woman won’t bring her back.

But the mysterious woman is quiet, unassuming as they sit together at the sticky wooden counter top, and he likes that about her. He finds he likes a lot about her. The way the dim lights of the seedy establishment reflect from her auburn tresses, so similar to Scully’s it makes his chest ache. Her tiny hands. The curve of her fingernails. Her full lips. Features so similar that just for a moment he pretends that she’s there with him. 

“What I find fantastic is any notion that there are answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there. You just have to know where to look.”

I don’t know where to look, Scully.

He shakes his head with a sigh.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks, not looking at her, too afraid to look into her eyes and lose himself in her. He’s dangerous. She should stay far away from him. Scully didn’t listen, and look what happened to her. One night won’t bring her back, he keeps telling himself. Then maybe it’s about forgetting.

Certainly, she knows what that feels like. She must. There’s sadness that ebbs around her. Maybe she’s missing someone too.

They make it as far as the alley before he pushes her up against the brick wall, and lifts her small frame, hastily pulling necessary garments to the side as she runs her tongue against his jaw. After a few fumbling attempts, he’s inside of her, buried in the slick heat of her. She groans against his neck as his cock moves in and out of her, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass as they rush towards their completion, finding comfort and solace in each other.

This is what he needs, to melt into her. If only for a moment.

He never asks her name.

II.

He sees her as he enters the hospital stairwell, sitting on the lonely steps nursing a cigarette. He wants to chide her on the dirty habit, comment on the irony of smoking in a hospital, but as the tobacco wafts towards him, and heady spice of orange blossom assaults his nostrils, his cock twitches in remembrance. How she tasted of cigarettes and smoky wine, her neck smelling sweetly feminine as he moved against her.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” he says wryly, and she startles, turning to face him with a small smile, even as her eyes betray her. They’re red-rimmed, and swollen, and he fights the urge to ask her if she’s okay. Of course she’s not. Her grief rolls from her in waves, but she wears it well. Her hair softly curls around her face as she tiredly stares at the barren white wall in front of her, her eyes glazed over in deep thought.

Moving to sit beside her, he reaches out and takes the cigarette from between her fingers, bringing it to his own mouth for a long drag. “I don’t do this a lot, either,” he replies, repeating her earlier words, and it earns him a sad smile.

“I should go,” she says, standing up. She runs her fingers through his hair and he shivers, the touch of her still so fresh it burns his skin. What he wouldn’t give to run his tongue between her breasts again, to taste the soft powdery skin that still lingers on his tongue, or the feel of her legs wrapped around him, begging him to move harder…, faster. To forget. To forget about the woman who lays comatose on the other side of the door, his partner, his friend.

She doesn’t ask him why he’s at the hospital, and he doesn’t offer it. Some answers are just too complicated.

“Don’t go.” He closes his eyes to the pleading sound of his voice, and she reaches her hand out in invitation. 

This is what he needs. To melt into her. If only for a moment.

Later, he realizes how obviously clear it had been. Too consumed by grief and lust, he missed the subtle clues: The soft curl of her auburn hair, the swell of her luscious lips, the grief and sadness that lurked in the depths of her eyes. He can still smell her, lingering in the air like a distant memory and his cock twitches. It was all there. It had been all along.

But he wanted to forget. He wanted to bury his cock so deeply inside of that mysterious woman that maybe he could forget how much his heart was breaking. He wanted to watch her body sway and move, watch her nipples harden under his touch, feel the swollen heat of her cunt as he pressed his fingers inside of her.

She rode him hard and fast, panting and moaning as he met her thrusts. It was carnal. It was feral. It was grief fucking.

All the clues were there. But it wasn’t until he stood by his partner’s bedside, watching the rise and fall of her chest did the puzzle pieces begin to fit together.

Orange blossoms and patchouli musk.

Fair, paper-thin skin, framed by soft auburn tendrils.

There SHE was.

“I’ve been told not to call you ‘Fox’.”


End file.
